Held in Darkness
by Sir Egg of Breakfast
Summary: "But it all comes down to this: How are you supposed to run from the monsters when you can't see the monsters?" Begins at series 3 with blind OC Leonardo Renton. Left blind and alone with no place to turn, Leo discovers sometimes home can find you.
1. Space Rhinos are angry with me

**This is the first part for my fic which centres around my own OC, Leo. Updates will be annoyingly slow and you will probably want to punch me, because I am that person that forgets and takes years to update (oops). But on the plus side I like putting my characters through trauma, so there will always be angst! (Thats not really a plus, is it?) I'll try to narrow updates down from years to months in the future but I apologise for any long waits, past or future.**

Space Rhinos are angry with me: In which I discover there is something worse about hospitals than hospital food. (Smith and Jones)

 _If you were to go deep enough into the ocean you could watch the water change._

 _It changes from the clear tide you see on beaches, with seagulls cawing and seaweed littered along it. It goes to a darker blue as you head down and maybe you will see a shoal of fish swimming so fast they might as well be flying._

 _But it's when you get really deep- the darkest part of the water where light won't reach and the pressure would crush you. That's what it feels like to be blind. I have been blind for twenty six days and two hours. I am in the dark part of the ocean, able to remember the light but unable to swim back up._

Have you ever tried to take a piss with your eyes shut?

It's the hardest thing you can try to do. There are people who will tell you learning an instrument is hard, earning a Maths degree is hard and. But I challenge them to go find a toilet (not even to get there without seeing like I had to) to just shut their eyes and try to use the toilet.

I say again: It's the hardest thing you can possibly try to do. Especially when you have to stand up. I don't speak for all the blind females out there because I have never known what goes on in their bathrooms (even when I _could_ see because I am not a peeping Tom thank you very much) but you have to aim as a bloke and well… for all you gardeners out there it's like trying to aim a hose at a specific plant. With your eyes shut.

Nice image, right? Think of that next time you water your tulips…

Maybe it seems odd that this is such a big deal to me but I can still remember seeing. I remember when going to the toilet was just a thing and only a thing, not a huge challenge. I have a white cane (I mean, they told me it's white and there was an awkward silence if I asked if they had blue to match my eyes. They did not have blue). But what am I really supposed to do with a stick and a urinal? I'm supposed to know what to do but I have no idea and I'm just pretending to have a sudden expert knowledge of peeing without seeing.

I've had Retinitis pigmentosa since I was a little kid. It's genetically inherited, but I can't tell you from which parent- my dad's dead and my mum has another family in Ireland, and she doesn't need me and I don't need her if you, Mr. Urinal who sadly doesn't come voice activated, want to know how I feel about it.

It started small- I wasn't able to see at night when I was about six and I tried to stay up reading Harry Potter. I didn't think there was anything odd about it- I mean it was dark and you can't see in the dark, and even after I switched on lamps I just assumed the bulb was broken. I just tried to eat more carrots, because of an impressive six year old logic. Things got worse slowly- it's funny, really, because if they'd got worse quickly it would have sunk in more. I suppose I didn't know I was going to be blind, but there was a possibility of it.

It's like how every time you cross the road there's a danger you'll die because a car will hit you, or a piano will fall on your head, or aliens will invade. You don't choose to think of it, because you don't want to go mad.

Am I mad? Well I'm having a monologue at the urinal so that's perfectly debatable.

"You finished Leo?" I jump violently and end up dropping the stick. _Shite_. It's Steve- I don't know what to call him- a nurse, a carer or a guide person, like a guide dog? I hate how much I have to rely on my ears- I'm still not used to it, I might never be. It's like I have to recognize even the tiniest motions to have any idea of what's going on- the hum of a computer, how shoes sound on different surfaces, to hear if something is heading towards or away from me and a million other sounds Id barely think about if I could just _see_.

"Leo?"

I jump again, because I don't learn from my mistakes. "Yeah..." But I don't know if I meant it as a question or as an answer so I just awkwardly leave it hanging like verbal dirty laundry.

"I- yeah, I'm coming."

It took me eighteen shuffle-steps to reach the urinal which I did not use. I slowly move the stick in a semi-circle shape as I shuffle forward. I swing the stick too hard and am rewarded with a sharp crack as it hits the… the… I move my other hand slowly around me, and I slowly feel a smooth basin shape and… a few inches forward, a metal something with a liquid dripping from it. A sink, it's the sinks. I try to visualize it, holding on with one hand to the sinks and one hand clutching the stick as I hold it in its semi-circle sweep.

Okay, three small steps. One shuffle-sweep.

Two steps, one sweep.

One step, one sweep.

I stop for a minute, just for a break and to close my eyes. Christ, walking is hard. But I don't want support because if I can't read on my own, currently can't get changed on my own and can't run at all then I am bloody well going to walk on my own and anyone who has a problem with that can-

A soft thud as something hits the floor and all I can think is _poor Steve_ , because I am not coming out of this bathroom quickly.

I crouch down and set my stick on the ground and try to feel around for whatever I knocked over or possibly broke. A rustle as my fingers find something smooth and… plastic-y. One hand stretches out further to touch something that feels like tissue. Something that feels like paper, something else that feels like tinfoil.

I think I knocked over the bin.

I feel for the plastic rim and set the bin back up. Try to, anyway. "Well that was _rubbish_." I mutter quietly, because you can take my spirit but you will never take my bad puns.

I stand up and continue to the door.

 _It's worse at night._

 _I want to see so badly it builds in my chest, a physical pressure and I have to clamp my teeth shut because I know if I open my mouth I'll start screaming and won't be able to stop. I want to claw at the darkness in my eyes and see the moonlight shining through the blinds, see the night sky and the orange streetlights that pierce the darkness. And maybe it seems strange because the night is dark and being blind is dark but its two completely different types- you can always turn a light on when it it's a dark night, and night always goes back to day._

 _When you're blind the dark never goes back to light._

 _I dream in colour._

 _Small things, like the red of an apple, the glow of a phone at night. The pages of a book, the letters being understood immediately. But I dream mostly of how easy everything was when I could see. Picking up objects without thinking about it. Crossing the road. Seeing who I was talking to, what I was doing. Glancing in the mirror in the morning._

 _Simple, small things are gone and that hurts the most._

I hate stairs.

I can remember charging up the stairs two or three at a time and not having to cling to the handrail like I was training for the hurdle at the Staircase Olympics. Can I do that now? Yeah, sure I can if I want to end up in hospital- oh wait, I'm already there. That's so convenient!

I have fallen five times so far- the first was when I was only blind for three days and it still felt like my eyes were just shut and I could open them at any time. I tried to jump the first two steps- I hit the gap between the two and fell back to earth with a bump.

It hurt, thanks for asking.

But I hate stairs- I have to move so slowly, to hit the find the edge and slowly lift my foot and make sure it doesn't fall too far or too short from the step. It's easier on my good days- sometimes I don't even need to concentrate that hard because the stairs are easier to navigate than the hallways. Plus they stay in the same place so it's easier to remember where I am- like, oh this is that set of stairs that goes round a corner, or that set where I knocked that old lady named Florence over (don't ask. I'm pretty sure she sniffed me at one point). Some days I can barely find the will to raise my foot. _Swings and roundabouts_ , as Steve would say, and has said frequently. I think he means I have mood swings.

"Are you sure nobody else is on the stairs?" I ask with my ears straining for an extra set of footsteps. "Yes, there is definitely nobody else." Steve says reassuringly, although I am not reassured.

"I feel like one of those rabbits- the ones that have their ears up in the air, listening for sound vibrations or whatever." I say, and slowly raise my foot again onto the next step.

"Like the ones off Watership Down? That film messed me up as a kid…" Steve shudders next to me at the memory of the Scary Water Rabbits or whatever it's about. "Never seen it." I say, and am curious about these rabbits despite everything else. "Good." Steve says seriously.

One foot goes over the landing and I awkwardly shuffle forward until my stick hits the bottom of the next set of stairs.

One step over, one step above, one step over, one step above, one step over…

Two steps and I'm at the next landing. I've climbed these before- Mount Stepeverst, with two landings and twenty six steps total.

One step over, one above. Over, above and shuffle forward to check I'm on the next landing. The window is a little next to the corner- yep, that thing I just walked into would be the corner of the stairs- and I can touch the smooth glass now and _why have Steve's footsteps stopped?_

I feel a jolt of panic, like the panic you have as a small child when you lose your parents in a shop (that metaphor doesn't exactly apply to me because I'm blind so I can't lose sight of anything anymore and I have no parents, but you get the idea).

"Steve?" I ask with an unnaturally high voice. "Oh Christ, sorry Leo, I just…" He pauses with what is either awkwardness or disbelief. I have an awful feeling the words he is thinking are _forgot about you_ or _forgot you couldn't see what was going on_. I feel so useless- I hate relying on other people for everything that would be so easy if I could see. Looking out a window, for one.

"…the rain. Its falling _up_."

"What?"

Did I mishear him? I listen for the rain (its one sound I can recognize, because one does not simply live in England and not know the sound of rain). It sounds different- it usually sounds like you took some ball bearings and put them inside a tin can and shook them about. A harsh sound, you know?- the sound is still there but its oddly muffled. If it was falling the wrong way it would make sense for it to sound different, but… the rain just doesn't fall up. Is fall even the right word? Rise upwards? It only falls one way. Unless now I'm blind the universe thought it would be a hilarious joke to screw with the weather.

A sudden sharp crack and boom makes me jump. "Is it a storm?" I ask and the fear of a storm does nothing to help my voice which rises a few more octaves. You might think I'm pathetic being scared of a storm but I rely on my hearing- a storm would block out most sounds. And with my luck I'd probably get struck by lightning (yes, indoors. My awful luck).

"Steve, what do you think is happening?" I ask, but I never get to hear what Steve replies with because the floor is suddenly thrown away from me. But that's not the sort of blind panic I felt at the time, because at least if I could see it would be less awful and disorientating. It was like the floor, my one constant in a world of darkness, was suddenly taken away from me- I existed for a minute in a world of complete darkness, and then I screamed with fear -and I hate admitting that but it's true- because there was a hint of something worse than being blind, a world of no touch and sound and oh god the thought things could get worse terrifies me. The shaking seems to lessen somewhat and my head hits a surface with a sickening crunch that makes me think of cereal.

And then the world suddenly stops shaking and I release my breath, barely realizing I'd been holding it, and I want to shout out for Steve but all that happens is I let out a low groan. It feels like my entire body is being held underwater- my limbs are moving too slowly. I don't know what to do or what to think and then I just sort of slide away from myself. It's quite peaceful, really.

Like falling asleep…

 _It's getting harder to remember what I used to look like. I used to avoid mirrors like you'd avoid the plague- I hated looking at my face. Blond hair with no particular style that hung like straw. Brown eyes like mud. Skin so pale if you stuck me next to Dracula I would have made him look tanned. I try to imagine my face a lot nowadays. Are there shadows under my eyes from lack of sleep?_

 _It's like I've lost part of my identity. Cause I can't even see myself anymore._

"Take deep breaths. With me, one, two." All I can think of is pregnancy breathing and it makes me want to laugh but it makes me want to cry at the same time. The noises quiet as my heartbeat slows. Was it even that loud? Were there even voices? _One, Two._ My breathing slows and my hands stop trembling –I didn't notice them beginning to tremble- but I'm still sweating and I feel nausea clawing its way up my throat. A panic attack. The only other panic attack I had was when I was eleven- I remember a throbbing headache and the heavy breathing of fear; my own distress amplified.

It was a panic attack. Just a panic attack that I should've been able to handle better. If I wasn't weak. If I wasn't so useless. I feel like I'm going to cry but I can't cry because boys don't cry and I can't be weak but I start to cry anyway, so I push the sleeves of my shirt into my eyes and furiously rub away the tears. I'm pathetic. Really pathetic.

"-name? I'm the Doctor." Suddenly the rest of the noise from the room bursts up to full volume and I realize the person –a doctor?- with the same voice from earlier has been talking to me.

"Leo." I say and try for a normal sounding voice. Then I remember I have both sleeves pressed into my eyes and that trying to be normal is a stretch. I furiously wipe away the tears. The concussion, my headaches, the slurring. I'm actually less useful than I was before. I'm like a Pokémon that evolves into something worse, like a Magikarp evolving into just a regular carp. (CARP used suffocation on itself because it couldn't breathe away from water).

"Wh… what's going on?"

"Were on the moon." He replies.

I appreciate someone talking to me because at least then I know I exist. (Sometimes it feels like the rest of the world just doesn't exist and I've just disappeared).

"How…" _How long has it been since you took your meds?_ A part of me wants to snap. "How can we be on the moon?" I say with a strangled voice. But a different voice (a woman's voice, I think) cuts through before he can reply.

"All right now, everyone back to bed, we've got an emergency but we'll sort it out. Don't worry."

I can hear the metallic scrap of… something that sounds like a curtain rail. Hospital beds have those curtain things, don't they? I try to recall vague memories of hospital programmes.

"It's real. It's really real. Hold on." The same woman's voice, with something that sounds like awe. I suppose she's referring to the moon, but we just can't be…

"Don't! We'll lose all the air." A demanding authoritative voice commands. Someone who is used to being obeyed. That doesn't sound like something in a terrorist attack- I don't know, maybe its biological weapons or something.

"But they're not exactly air tight. If the air was going to get sucked out it would have happened straight away, but it didn't. So how come?" The female voice.

"Very good point. Brilliant, in fact. What was your name?"

"Martha."

"And it was Jones, wasn't it? Well then, Martha Jones, the question is, how are we still breathing?" OK so everyone believes the moon theory. Either its true or it's an elaborate practical joke, and I don't know what kind of weirdo would have a joke like this in a _hospital_.

"We can't be." The authoritative sounding voice says.

"Obviously we are, so don't waste my time. Martha, what have we got? Is there a balcony on this floor, or a veranda, or-"

"By the patients' lounge, yeah."

"Fancy going out?"

"Okay."

"Er, yeah." I say and stand up, slowly moving the stick.

I can barely take in their conversation- outside onto the _moon_? I am sceptical. But a childlike part of me still wants to try.

"We might die." The Doctor says seriously (well it would be concerning if he said it any other way).

"We might not." Martha replies optimistically.

Glass half empty, glass half full. But glasses don't need oxygen to survive.

"Good. Come on. Not her, she'd hold us up." I can hear his voice rise slightly for the second part and I presume he is directing it to another person. (I presume a lot). I have no idea who the she he's referring to is, maybe one of the doctors, but that's terrible logic on the Doctors behalf. Like the blind guy with a concussion _won't_ hold him up? But I don't say anything because I want to see where this is going.

"Exactly. _Allons-y_!"

I know there are a lot of things I should be feeling right now. Fear. Disbelief. Shock. Any of them would do. But I feel a sense of childlike wonderment- like when you're a little kid and you go down on Christmas day to find presents under the tree. But with a planet sized present. And for the first time in a very long time maybe… hope. Because despite being blind, if this is all real then I'm doing something extraordinary. It makes me feel like maybe blind isn't going to be the first word I have to use to describe myself with- that I won't be defined by this if I can just get to the moon. Then I'll be the guy who stood on the moon, not the blind guy where every step is a hurdle. It's stupid but its hopeful and maybe that's all that matters.

I close my eyes as we step forward. The air is cooler but that doesn't do much to convince me because it's usually the same sensation as stepping outside normally. It's the intense silence that begins to convince me- the kind that wraps around you and amplifies every small sound. No people no traffic, nothing. It's so alien. In London it's never completely quiet, not like it is now. It's exhilarating. I try to picture the moon like I used to see it- in pictures, in movies. The grey slab of rock, with the green and blues of the Earth in the distance.

Please just once. Please.

I open my eyes. It's dark but that's okay, space is dark. No need to doubt myself yet. I don't need tons of stars or planets or anything I just need this one view... which is of nothing. Of course it is. It's a crushing, childish sense of disappointment. I was foolish. A child playing pretend games. I'm on the moon, except I can't see the moon, so what's the point? _It_ _won't change. You know it won't. You… I… should just stop trying._

I try to think of anything else.

"We've got air. How does that work?" Martha asks, and I feel like an idiot. I should have been stressing about the important things like, oh I don't know, _breathing_. I can't seem to do much right.

"Just be glad it does." The Doctor says ominously. "This is completely insane." I say, stating the obvious. But there is a bizarre sort of freedom about it- doing something only a few people have ever got to do. And standing on the moon without a space suit, something nobody has ever been able to do. "I know- isn't it brilliant?" The Doctor agrees. I crouch down a little as my green (so I'm told) hospital pyjamas crinkle. The rock under my hand feels dry. I have no idea what the moon is made of- apparently not cheese, as my mother used to tell me, when I was very young. I stand back up again unsure what to make of it all.

"I've got a party tonight. It's my brother's twenty first. My mother's going to be really, really-" She trails off. "I can barely believe it either." I admit. "Seems like any minute I'll just wake up." _Wake up to nothing._ Shut up, I tell myself but I'm not really listening to that part of me. _Doesn't make much of a difference. You already are nothing._ Oh yay I'm arguing with myself. On the moon. I'm like every disgruntled tourist- goes off to a new place, argues.

"My brother's name is Leo, too." Martha says. I smile in what I hope is her general direction. "Must be nice to have siblings." I say slightly wistfully. -"Yeah it is. They drive me mad sometimes though." Martha laughs. _Born on your own; you'll die on your own. You won't even see it coming._ Shut up shut up shut up-

"You two okay?" The Doctor asks concerned- oddly enough he himself seems to be fine. Not casual but not overwhelmed either. Who exactly is the Doctor? "Yeah." Martha says. "Fine." I lie.

"Want to go back in?" The Doctor asks. Oddly enough, no. There's a certain sort of peace to it- it always feels like the world is rushing by me in one confusing lurch, but out here it's just still- it's content. In spite of not seeing it if I close my eyes (and pretend I can open them properly at any time) and just breathe… then I could be anyone doing anything anywhere.

"No way. I mean, we could die any minute, but all the same, it's beautiful." Martha says and I have to agree. It's probably the best thing that has happened to me for a while.

"What do you think happened?" Martha asks and I realize I must have been zoning out a little. I try to tune back into the conversation, adjusting a radio style.

"What do you think?" The Doctor asks, genuinely curious.

"Extraterrestrial. It's got to be. I don't know, a few years ago that would have sounded mad, but these days? That spaceship flying into Big Ben, Christmas, those Cybermen things. I had a cousin. Adeola. She worked at Canary Wharf. She never came home." I remember that Christmas- I wasn't doing anything special, but I never am for Christmas. London was so empty- it was odd. Chris and I (the only friend I ever really had) had gone out for Greggs. I never did get to eat that pastry, thanks to those aliens. Chris didn't make it. Aliens killed her. Not the star spaceship aliens at Christmas (later on that just seemed like a bad taste joke or prank). The other aliens, the ones I still have nightmares about. Ever since then I've avoided anything to do with the aliens. As far as I'm concerned they are just another story on the news- and they should stay that way.

And now all this has happened. "I lost a friend because of those things." I say out loud but what I don't add is that _is this going to be another alien induced slaughter_? Mostly because I really think that would be a conversation killer. But maybe that's just me. "I'm sorry." The Doctor says to both of us. He sounds sincere but also familiar. Familiar with loss? Seems like everything just raises more questions around the Doctor. "Yeah." Martha says softly.

"I was there, in the battle." The Doctor says seriously. "I promise you, Mister Smith, we will find a way out. If we can travel to the moon, then we can travel back. There's got to be a way." Martha says determinedly. Martha is a damn sight braver than me- now I know aliens are involved my first impulse is to hide behind a plant pot. When not exactly like that… but I also don't want to go rushing straight to my death.

"It's not Smith. That's not my real name." The Doctor says carefully. His aura of mystery increases. "Who are you, then?" Martha asks and I feel a sense of impatience for answers mixed with curiosity- we may be on the moon but the Doctor seems to be far more mysterious. "I'm the Doctor." The Doctor replies. Does he mean it obnoxiously- like he is _the_ Doctor compared to _a_ doctor? But he didn't seem the type.

"Me too, if I can pass my exams. What is it then, Doctor Smith?" Martha must be a medical student- good on her, I don't have half the brains to be one. Did GCSEs, did them badly and was going to leave it at that- before the blindness. My life seems to have ended with that and there is only existing after it. Existing apart from everyone. "Just the Doctor." He confirms again.

"So like Mr. Doctor or are you actually a Doctor?" I ask, very confused over his name choice.

"Nothing like that. Just the Doctor." He says it like it should be simple but it really isn't. "What, people call you _the Doctor_?" Martha asks.

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm not. As far as I'm concerned, you've got to earn that title." Martha says slightly indignantly (and she has a point to be fair if you've spent years studying to be one you want a prestigious title to go with it).

"Well, I'd better make a start, then. Let's have a look. There must be some sort of-" I hear a _bump_ and then another _bump_. The sound of dropping things, tripping over things or throwing things. I think so anyway. "What did you do?" I ask impatiently. I hate this about blindness- I'm always two steps behind, a burden, the kid picked last for the team sport. An odd analogy but it's the same sense of shame I feel. _Why can't I be useful?_

"I threw a rock- seems to be a force field keeping the air in."

"And us." I add ominously because I'm always the voice of optimism.

"But if that's like a bubble sealing us in, that means this is the only air we've got. What happens when it runs out?" I don't get how air is only in a bubble- I thought air moved through them. But I don't want to say anything like that because I've already asked enough stupid questions- why am I even here? I'm a burden to everyone around me. I suddenly just want to apologize, go back inside, crawl under a bed and never come out.

I realize I have been lost in thought a little bit. "One thousand people. Suffocating." The Doctor says, and I feel a sense of shame. I am only able to think of myself when there are people in the hospital who suffer more than me.

"Why would anyone do that?"

"Head's up! Ask them yourself." A whooshing sound overhead- what the hell is that? Sounds similar to a plane or something. How can a plane be on the moon though? It seems to be the most impossible thing in the situation. A spaceship though? It wouldn't be the first time… I remember that spaceship that crashed through Big Ben, the star thing that fired lightning at Christmas… it's not impossible, not by any means. But it is definitely bad news.

"Aliens. That's aliens. Real, proper aliens." Martha says and I feel nothing but dread. Not aliens. Not again. I am only comforted by the fact that there is really nobody I care about left. _Not even me_.

"Judoon." The Doctor names them.

Aliens. Not aliens.

Back indoors on a higher place (I remember stairs, my stair shuffle feeling like I was slowing them down yet I am too selfish to leave) The Doctor observes cheerfully "Oh, look down there, you've got a little shop. I like a little shop."

"Never mind that. What are Judoon?" Martha asks the one million dollar question. I sort of don't want to know, sort of do. Are they worse than Cybermen? That star thing? The spaceship where some people –including myself- were hypnotised into nearly killing themselves with no memory of it? _What could be worse than all that?_ I reflect, with a trickle of fear running down my spine.

"They're like police. Well, police for hire. They're more like interplanetary thugs." Oh wonderful. God forbid we should have aliens that just want to come down and relax, take a few pics, buy a few terrible souvenirs and leave again. My panic makes me ramble. Or is that the concussion? As my heart throbs in time with my heart beating I decide it could be both. My head aches and it hasn't stopped.

"And they brought us to the moon?" Martha asks. "I take it it wasn't out of the goodness of the hearts, giving everyone a free holiday or something." I say with old man crankiness. _These ageist stereotypes, very witty_ _Leo_ I tell myself.

"Neutral territory. According to galactic law, they've got no jurisdiction over the Earth, and they isolated it. That rain, lightning? That was them, using an H2O scoop." I feel like my worldview has been expanded slightly- they have territories? Space police? How do they see Earth- if we don't have spaceships or anything do they see us as lesser? But if we are trying to contact aliens (I once read about something like that at NASA) then why don't they diplomatically respond? When do they decide they _will_ respond? And no multiple invasions doesn't count as responding it's the universal equivalent of cold callers. Unless they already have responded- is there a secret force on Earth that deals with these kind of things? I don't think my thoughts are making sense- is it the concussion? Because we _do_ know about aliens… I … need to get a grip.

I must have completely lost myself then because when I blink myself out of my stupor the Doctor is half way through a sentence.

"-means they're after something non-human, which is very bad news for me." I definitely heard that bit. If he's an alien and not crazy (he was in a ward for head injuries, as was I) it does explain a bit. Like his calm demeanour.

"Why? Oh, you're kidding me. Don't be ridiculous. Stop looking at me like that."

"Come on then."

An electronic buzzing sound- what is the Doctor doing? "They've reached third floor. What's that thing?" Martha informs us. What the hell are those things going to do when they get here?

"Sonic screwdriver." I feel a twinge of annoyance. I don't even have a basic understanding of science, how am I supposed to know what a sonic screwdriver is?

"Well, if you're not going to answer me properly." Martha says and my respect for her grows. Martha is not prepared to take anyone's crap, no matter what species they are.

"No, really, it is. It's a screwdriver, and it's sonic. Look." He passes it over to me for my benefit- touch is the closest thing I can do to looking. It's a thoughtful gesture and I'm touched- I wouldn't have thought to have done it if our roles were reversed. There's a slightly ridged end that smooths out and a domed part at the other end. A button that I want to push up but definitely shouldn't. I hand it back (probably nowhere near where the Doctor actually is) and he takes it. "Thank you." I tell him, a response that isn't adequate in expressing how grateful I am him passing it over. It might seem small to other people but honestly it makes the world seem a little less endless.

"What else have you got, a laser spanner?"

"I did, but it was stolen by Emily Pankhurst, cheeky woman. Oh, this computer! The Judoon must have locked it down _. Judoon platoon upon the moon_. Because I was just travelling past. I swear, I was just wandering. I wasn't looking for trouble, honestly, I wasn't, but I noticed these plasma coils around the hospital, and that lightning, that's a plasma coil. Been building up for two days now, so I checked in. I thought something was going on inside. It turns out the plasma coils were the Judoon up above." He seems mad. Brilliant, but mad.

"But what were they looking for?" Martha asks. "Something that looks human, but isn't." The Doctor says. "Are they after you?" I ask and feel slightly ashamed after the Doctor has shown me nothing but kindness. He could still be a space criminal though.

"Like me. But not me." The Doctor says. "Haven't they got a photo?" Martha queries.

"Well, might be a shape-changer." The Doctor says. "Aliens can do that?" I say, thinking of the shape shifting lizard conspiracy (which is probably the wrong end of the stick). "Yeah. Zygons, for one. Big red rubbery thing." The Doctor says and I resolve not to ask him to go into detail.

"Whatever it is, can't you just leave the Judoon to find it?" Martha says, which is a fair point because I do not want to anger the space police.

"If they declare the hospital guilty of harbouring a fugitive, they'll sentence it to execution." The Doctor says. "What kind of justice is that?!" I say with outrage, thinking of Chris. _Who you let die_. Don't go there. Please. I plead with myself which is a new kind of pathetic. "All of us?" Martha says, following the same line of thought as me.

"Oh yes. If I can find this thing first. Oh! You see, they're thick! Judoon are thick! They are _completely_ thick! They wiped the records. Oh, that's clever." I don't understand half of what just happened other than he might be species-ist.

"What are we looking for?" Martha asks and I presume they are searching through some kind of hospital database. (I know, I rival Sherlock in terms of deductively). "I don't know. Say, any patient admitted in the past week with unusual symptoms. Maybe there's a back-up." The Doctor muses deep in focus. "Just keep working. I'll go ask Mister Stoker. He might know." Martha leaves quickly- I can identify that at least by the sound of footsteps. I hope she will be alright.

"Are you some kind of alien investigator or something?" I ask, thinking of the X-Files. "Nah, not me. I just travel a lot." I remember a teacher telling me once that travelling was just another way of saying unemployed when I told them it was what I wanted to do when I was older. Funny how things change, when going down to the shops seems as distant as the moon… maybe that would be a better example if I was on Earth and not the moon.

"Do you mean on Earth or something on a… larger scale." Aliens have to come from somewhere, right? It's an unpleasant thought, like trying to find a wasps nest especially when you know you will be stung.

the pitter-patter rhythm grows louder- somebody is running towards us.

"I've restored the back-up." The Doctor says.

"I found her." Martha says, breathing rushed from running or panic. Worst case scenario, both. Then it sinks in- she found the alien the Judoon are looking for. Fear churns in my stomach and all I can remember is the other aliens that I was never this involved in and feel envious.

"You did what?" The Doctor says whether in disbelief, fear or even excitement I cant say.

The sudden sharp _crack_ of wood breaking makes me jump.

"Run!" the Doctor shouts and all I can think is that he doesn't need to tell me twice.

The most prominent thing about being blind is that the world suddenly becomes very vast. It doesn't sound too bad, but in reality it's awful. A claustrophobic endless mass of space that you can move through _oh-so-slowly_ while the world around you speeds well ahead and you are left behind.

It also really, really doesn't help if aliens are thrown into the mix I reflect, as I stand panting in the room. The frantic chase we had just endured felt like a dream- the fractured ones, where one minute you run through a dark hall before it shatters like glass and you find yourself falling.

There were stairs but we heard the heavy stomp of those… things so we ran- well I stumbled a lot luckily someone held on to me. In other circumstances that might've been patronizing but I didn't want to be left behind. And it was helpful given the situation. We barged into this room and here we are, hiding behind some screen. Reflecting on it makes it seem much less hectic but as I stand here with a racing heart it was anything but peaceful.

"When I say now, press the button." The Doctor commands, sounding tense.

"But I don't know which one!" Martha protests.

"Then find out!" The Doctor shouts back with uncharacteristic intenseness.

All the while there is a rhythmic _thump thump_ coming from the door- those things are trying to break in, aren't they? The fact I'm shaking right now must be because of the concussion. Not because of the fear. I have no idea what the Doctor and Martha are doing (all I can hear are frantic scuffling noises) and I'm ashamed and angry with myself because I could not be any more useless.

"Now!" The Doctor yells, making me jump.

There was a heavy muffled thump and I'm hit with a wave of relief. I guess whoever was chasing us isn't going to be chasing anyone else soon.

"What happened?" I ask and hate myself because if my eyes just worked for five bloody minutes Id know. If they worked for just _five minutes_ every day it could change everything.

"Increased the radiation by five thousand per cent. Killed him dead." The Doctor explains. "Oh." I say because I have no idea what that means for us. Is the room full of radiation now?

"But isn't that going to kill you?" Martha says concern bordering on panic evident in her tone.

"Nah, it's only roentgen radiation. We used to play with roentgen bricks in the nursery. It's safe for you to come out. I've absorbed it all." The Doctor says and the only thing that sinks is in that he used to play with radiation. I had a stuffed animal I carried around for years till someone said _it's gay for a boy to carry one_ then I threw it away. I cried myself to sleep for about three weeks. Aside from Chris, Mr Penguin was the only other friend I've made in my life. Mostly because a stuffed badger couldn't question my authority. Yeah I know, Mr. Penguin, badger. Logic.

But I'm pretty sure Mr Penguin was not radioactive.

"All I need to do is expel it. If I concentrate I can shake the radiation out of my body and into one spot. It's in my left shoe. Here we go, here we go. Easy does it. _Out, out, out, out, out. Out, out. Ah, ah, ah, ah! It is, it is, it is, it is, it is hot. Hold on_." He mutters the last part to himself but it is a constant stream of information that is very easy to be swept away in.

"He's not actually trying to shake it out of himself is he?" I ask Martha when I realize it could be more than a figure of speech. "I wish I could say no." Martha says.

To finish there is a clunk sound of one object hitting another. "He threw his shoe in the bin." Martha states out loud for which I am grateful.

"Done." The Doctor declares. "You're completely mad." Martha says which is an incredibly accurate diagnosis. "You're right. I look daft with one shoe." _Gosh, I didn't even notice_ , I deadpan inside my own head. This is followed by the same clunking sound as before. "He's thrown off his other shoe." Martha confirms. "Barefoot on the moon." The Doctor says sounding like a weird advert for space tourism.

"So what is that thing? And where's it from, the planet Zovirax?" Martha asks and I think she is talking about the fallen assailant. I kind of want to poke it but I don't because it's radioactive and it would probably be disrespectful. But I find myself caring less about the last part because if it didn't want to die, why'd it get involved in all this?

"It's just a Slab. They're called Slabs. Basic slave drones. See? Solid leather, all the way through. Someone has got one hell of a fetish." I should feel relieved it isn't conscious but I don't. Aliens. Always aliens taking the things I care about, so why should I feel sorry for one? _But the Doctor is an alien too_. That's different.

Also, aliens have fetishes.

"But it was that woman, Miss Finnegan. It was working for her, just like a servant." Martha explains what she saw earlier.

"My sonic screwdriver." The Doctor says mournfully.

"She was one of the patients, but-" Martha tries to continue. "You found the alien." I state as realization hits me.

"Oh, no. My sonic screwdriver." He continues distracted and ignoring Martha which I think is kind of tactless.

"Yeah- she had a straw like some kind of vampire." Martha replies, as the Doctor grieves for his tool in the background. "Oh my god she's an alien vampire." The only thing I can think of is Twilight (I once dragged a very reluctant Chris to go and see the movie. It was a phase, I had a crush on Robert Pattinson in all his sparkly glory) but this is much worse (Chris would say nothing was worse than Twilight if she were here) because I might die. Nothing is worth dying for especially not the chance to be a hero so I am sure as hell not challenging the crazy vampire alien lady.

"I loved my sonic screwdriver." The Doctor says, still in disbelief.

"Doctor?" Martha says trying to remind him of the situation.

"Sorry." He says sheepishly. A metallic clunking noise as he throws what I guess is the screwdriver away.

"You called me Doctor." He notes, and I swear I hear the smile.

"Anyway? Miss Finnegan is the alien. She was drinking Mister Stoker's blood." Martha says getting back to the matter at hand.

"Funny time to take a snack. You'd think she'd be hiding. _Unless_ …" He ponders. "No. Yes, that's it. Wait a minute. Yes! Shape-changer. Internal shape-changer. She wasn't drinking blood, she was assimilating it." The sudden burst of enthusiasm reminds me of a geyser.

"If she can assimilate Mister Stoker's blood, mimic the biology, she'll register as human. We've got to find her and show the Judoon. Come on!"

And with those words I somehow find myself on the way to challenge the crazy not-exactly-a-vampire alien lady.

We are hiding behind the water dispenser. Steve gave me a tour a while ago and I remember a gurgling machine which he said was the dispenser. Sadly this is familiar ground for me, as I spent time around water fountains and vending machines so I wouldn't have to talk to people.

There is the sound of the Slabs as they travel down a corridor- the steady thud of leather on the ground. It feels like I'm prey being hunted and I nervously wipe my hands on the green hospital pyjamas that feel a bit plastic-y.

"That's the thing about Slabs. They always travel in pairs." _Like socks_ I think and then realize that is the worst thing anybody has said since _why don't we cancel Firefly?_ Though I suppose we just need to find out who is wearing those socks… again, a terrible analogy.

"What about you?" Martha asks. "What about me what?" The Doctor replies. "Haven't you got back-up? You must have a partner or something?" Sounds like CSI: In space. "Oh. Humans. We're stuck on the moon running out of air with Judoon and a bloodsucking criminal, you're asking personal questions? Come on." The Doctor says. "Well if we are running out of oxygen, no time like the present." I remark.

"I like that. Humans. I'm still not convinced you're an alien." Martha says. I think he is- I don't want to say it out loud because it sounds daft, but the things he says- playing with radiation, sonic screwdriver and how he seemed almost relaxed on the moon. How he is calm even now. Like he's tangled with aliens before and not just from afar. Unless were the aliens he's tangled with? Are we aliens to the aliens? _Not the time_ , I tell myself.

We suddenly stop walking and I hear the whirl of high tech machinery followed by a beep.

"Non-human." A coarse voice announces. One of the Slabs? But if they are made of leather can they even talk? I feel a pang of pity for them- made to just be slaves. It's not fair, but nothing ever is. "Oh my God, you really are." Martha says shocked. "And again." The Doctor says. Run again? It's going to be running, isn't it?

The first few steps aren't too bad- it's like the way a plane takes off, with a few bumps along the way but mostly on course. But full out running is like getting up in the air and realizing you have no idea how to fly a plane. It's terrifying- lurching through the empty air, never knowing if I'm going to hit something or fall over. But I don't want to be weak and admit I'm struggling. Then I slip and nearly fall over- the Doctors hand grabs my own preventing me from falling over and I am relieved- I don't want to be left behind on my own. A sudden sharp sound like a whistle followed by another- I remember the same kind of noise from the Christmas star. A crackle of that lightning as it hit… as it killed people. _We are being attacked_ , the only coherent thought that reaches me brain other than _bloody aliens_.

I am out of breath and my head is buzzing by the time we reach the next floor. I notice the suspicious quiet- nothing. None of the tell-tale people noises, just… nothing. "What happened to everyone?" I ask nervously in case the same fate waits for us. "Were running out of oxygen, people are falling unconscious." The Doctor says. "They've done this floor. Come on. The Judoon are logical and just a little bit thick. They won't go back to check a floor they've checked already. If we're lucky." He continues. No more running. _Thank you_ I pray to any deity that's listening.

"How much oxygen is there?" Martha asks and I realize we are running out of time. "Not enough for all these people. We're going to run out." A male voice I don't recognise. I dub him the Voice of Good News. Which isn't creative _at all_ but blame the lack of oxygen.

"How are you both feeling? Are you all right?" The Doctor asks the two of us concern ripe in his tone.

"Yeah." I mutter, which seems inadequate to describe everything. "I'm running on adrenaline." Martha says and I realize, with a thud, that my fear has kept me going for all this time.

"Welcome to my world." The Doctor says grimly. I am very scared, more scared than I've ever been but the choices are to die quietly in a corner or to try to fight. As tempting as the corner is… maybe fighting is the right thing to do.

In that case, I really _hate_ doing the right thing.

"What about the Judoon?"

"Nah, great big lung reserves. It won't slow them down. Where's Mister Stoker's office?"

"It's this way." Martha says, and we go.

We've barged our way into so many rooms I feel like a cop on a bad TV sitcom.

The latest is the office where Martha went earlier (it's insane that was still today, so much has happened in _one day_ ).

"She's gone. She was here." Martha says worriedly. I use my walking stick to scan the floor like some sort of stupid sonar scanner. Yet I must do a very poor job of it because my foot nudges into something very soft. It feels like… oh god, it feels like flesh, but deflated. _Jesus_.

"Is… there a d-dead person here?" I say hesitantly unsure of how to phrase it. "Yeah. Stoker, she drained him dry. Every last drop. I was right. She's a plasmavore." The Doctors tone holds reverence for the dead man in the room. My stomach clenches with horror because everything became more awful and real than it was before.

An alien is here to kill people. Just like last time with the ghosts and Chris and- the horror creeps up my throat and I squeeze my eyes shut (not that it makes a damn bit of difference to what I see) and try to forget.

It doesn't work.

"-The Judoon could execute us all. Come on." The Doctor says ominously and I curse myself for not listening. I did the same thing in school, except daydreaming your way through algebra didn't usually entail risk of death.

"Wait a minute." Martha says. "I don't want to leave him like this… we should at least close his eyes." I suppose she does just that. I feel a bit guilty- I didn't even think to do it. I- I probably couldn't anyway.

I'm just glad it isn't me who is the corpse.

" _Think, think, think_. If I was a plasmavore surrounded by police, what would I do?" "Hide?" I suggest then award myself the title Captain Obvious. "Yes, but what else?" The Doctor says, doing his whole thoughts-run-like-a-river deal. Until "Ah! She's as clever as me. Almost." I am incredibly frustrated- blindness isn't fast paced. It's slow and frustrating- a bit like when the TV reception is bad and you can't get the channel you want so you end up stuck staring at static, waiting to know what's happening.

I walk a little further ahead (honestly, to sulk and be scared on my own) ignoring the fact I have no idea where I am. (Not an unusual feeling but still) before the piercing sounds of screams and crashing make me jump violently. When sound is the only sight you have its disorientating.

"Find the non-human. Execute." The same voice as before, like somebody used gravel as mouthwash- those Judoon things.

"Leo go back to Martha now!" The Doctors commands, urgency in his tone. "Where's Martha?" I say stubbornly. "Back where we were earlier, please Leo _go_!"

"I- I'm coming with you." I decide stupidly, bravely, rightly or wrongly I don't know but I decide I'm tired of being useless. "The last time I was this close to aliens it was those ghosts and someone I care… cared about died and I don't want that to happen to you or Martha so just let me try to keep somebody safe _for once_!" The words come out in a rush before I can regret them, I feel like an overflowing sink. Terrible analogy, yet again.

"I understand." The Doctor says solemnly, surprising me with a sudden hug.

I can't remember the last time I was hugged. I don't know what to say. He releases me from the hug and speaks.

"Right then _, Allons-y_!"

It isn't as bad as the ghosts. That's the one saving grace of all this- it isn't the ghosts.

But it would have to be very bad to be like the ghosts.

"Have you seen them? There are these things. These great big space rhino things. I mean, rhinos from space. And we're on the moon! Great big space rhinos with guns on the moon. And I only came in for my bunions, look. I mean, all fixed now. Perfectly good treatment. The nurses were lovely. I said to my wife, I said I'd recommend this place to anyone, but then we end up on the moon. And did I mention the rhinos?" I think I know what the Doctor is trying to do- be human. Be the most boring, predictable human he can think of. But why? So she will lower her guard?

"Hold them." Florence commands and leather wrapped hands hold my arms behind my back and I presume the Doctor as well. I feel vulnerable- touch and hearing are all I have and now touch has been taken away. I should feel terrified. But I'm just tired. _Chris is this how you felt just before you died?_ Empty and alone.

"Er, that, that big, er machine thing. Is it supposed to be making that noise?" The Doctor asks, doing his Human impression 101. Except the Doctor is here, isn't he? I might not die. I find I don't care either way.

"You wouldn't understand." Florence says condescendingly. Which is true for me at least.

"But isn't that a magnetic resonance imaging thing? Like a ginormous sort of a magnet? I did magnetics GCSE. Well, I failed, but all the same." I have no idea what that means other than Florence (the alien named itself after someone's grandma! Not that I can judge I was named after a cartoon turtle) may have an evil fridge magnet.

"-a magnetic pulse that'll fry the brain stems of every living thing within two hundred and fifty thousand miles. Except for me, safe in this room." I tune back in just as she is explaining her evil plan, following in the footsteps of every James Bond villain ever. I know I'm taking this too lightly but in all honestly it's the only thing stopping me from falling to my knees and begging her to kill the Doctor first so I can stay alive just a bit longer. I'm ashamed of it, so I try to bury it down.

"But er, hold on, hold on, I did geography GCSE. I passed that one. Doesn't that distance include the Earth?" The Doctor says. "Only the side facing the moon. The other half will survive. Call it my little gift." Florence says. "How generous." I mutter under my breath. In comparison to other aliens that want to take over all the world, it is in a very weird way.

"Why do you want to kill everyone? What's the point?" I ask finally finding my voice, though it is of a higher pitch than I would like.

"With everyone dead, the Judoon ships will be mine, to make my escape." I frown- it still doesn't make any sense to me. If she kills half the people on Earth won't she have _more_ Judoon on her trail? But it's like the old proverb goes- _don't argue with the hella crazy person when your life is on the line._

"No, that's weird. You're talking like you're some sort of an alien." The Doctor says.

"Quite so."

"No!" It seems almost pantomime-esque to me- am I supposed to say _oh yes she is!_

"It's the perfect hiding place. Blood banks downstairs for a midnight feast, and all this equipment ready to arm myself with should the police come looking." Florence says and I missed some of their conversation. Again. Great concentration skills, Leo. I award myself a medal for them.

"So, those rhinos, they're looking for you?" "What rhinos?" I ask, confused. I don't remember hearing any rhino noises. "The Judoon." The Doctor explains. Oh. The Space Police are rhinos, because that makes perfect sense.

"Yes. But I'm hidden." Florence says slightly smugly. "Right. Maybe that's why they're increasing their scans." The Doctor says gaining the upper hand.

"They're doing what?" So that was news to her. Was it wise for the Doctor to divulge it? Scared people do desperate things. "Big chief rhino boy, he said, no sign of a non-human, we must increase our scans up to setting two?

"Then I must assimilate again." Florence says with her calm tone back in place. I wish I could see what is going on right now it seems like an intense radio show.

"Assimilate?" I ask curious in spite of everything. "I must appear to be human." I don't like the sound of that. Does she take peoples skin and wear it like a hat? I saw that in a horror movie once. But then I remember the corpse from earlier- deflated. No blood. Doesn't seem like a quick way to die. Fear pounds in my head.

"Well, you're welcome to come home and meet the wife. She'd be honoured. We can have cake." The Doctor continues jovially.

"Why should I have cake? I've got my little straw." I nearly laugh- straws, the stuff of nightmares. "Oh, that's nice. Milkshake? I like banana." The Doctor continues his banter.

"You're quite the funny man. And yet, I think, laughing on purpose at the darkness." Florence observes, then turns to me (I hear the squeak of her shoes on the floor and her voice is direct, much clearer. Or she found a microphone, whatever). "And you are very quiet. Things to hide, I presume. Well the dead tend to keep their secrets so I am really doing you a favour."

"A-a bigger favour would be not killing me." I say slowly, trying to buy time.

"I'm afraid this is going to hurt. But if it's any consolation, the dead don't tend to remember."

She's going to kill me. I'm actually going to die.

I laugh, so loudly it startles me. I am aware it's a hysterical laugh but I honestly can't help it; it's all so stupid. I'm blind with a concussion and so many everyday careless mistakes could kill me and guess what? An alien disguised as an old lady is going to kill me. With a straw.

But even as I think it another part of me shouts out. She's going to kill me. I'm going to die.

I don't care. _I don't, I don't, I don't_. Let her kill me. It's the only way I'll have something other than this. "No, no don't, don't you dare!" The Doctor shouts and I hear scuffling sounds as he tries to fight back. I appreciate it, but if he lives people might have a chance.

I am being held back, footsteps are moving closer, softly on the floor. She has all the time in the world. I don't care, I don't. Hurry up. Freaking aliens don't even have super speed. It feels like I am in a bubble, only distantly aware of what is happening around me, and everything else is above the water, far away from me (with the light and the sound and those lightbulb fish-)

Hands on my neck. Warmer than I expected. Hollow sounds through the straw, and I am reminded of a vampire. A part of me is disgusted at being prey, nameless food. (Far below the light-)

(Deepest darkest ocean-)

A quiet part of me gets louder, just a bit-

(SWIM UP! Do _something_ , or are you dead already?)

-and a quiet part of me refuses. Just one thought. I don't want to die like this. The same parlaying fear that grabs hold of me and erases everything I am until I become just a machine of flesh and blood that doesn't want to die.

Then everything falls into place because that was his plan- his alien blood. So Florence will show up as alien, and oh _shit_ my presence here has really done a number on that. I lurch forward and head-butt her so she stumbles back with several heavy sounds. I breathe again, fresh air on my face. _Thank God_ , I think, but my relief is very short lived as there is a sudden explosion of pain.

And I go out like a light.

Consciousness returns slowly. I hate this feeling, trying to blink and wait for colour that never comes. For a moment I have no idea where I am until it all comes back in a rush and- oh no the Doctor! I'm overcome with doubt- what if I was wrong? What if that wasn't his plan at all- what if it was stupid heroic self-sacrifice? I realize the slabs are still holding me up and I feel like a piece of clothing on a washing line. I hear the thud of boots on the ground and they drop me. They hurt my back and my feelings.

"Now see what you've done. This poor man just died of fright." Florence tuts at whoever has entered- I guess Judoon, I doubt she would have hesitated to kill another human. I realize I am crying slightly and my face feels like one awful mess of snot and tears but fury burns brightly in me. "She killed him! She's the alien- she's the one that-"

"Delusional! The shock of this poor man dying has traumatized this young man." Florence says loudly, cutting me off.

"Scan him. Confirmation. Deceased." The Judoon states. He can't be dead. He just can't. In movies the hero never dies. He just can't be dead. Oh god, it was my fault. I messed up and now he's dead ( _Just like Chris-_ )

"No, he can't be. Let me through. Let me see him." Martha's voice- I feel weak with relief that she's OK- as okay as someone on the moon and running out of oxygen can be. "Stop. Case closed." Judoon commands. "It bloody well isn't, the killer is right there!" I realize that may have been badly phrased considering I can't exactly point to Florence. _Useless_.

"But it was her. She killed him. She did it. She murdered him!" Martha protests as well.

"Judoon have no authority over human crime." Is the Doctors plan coming into motion? I hope it is, god, I hope because I am so scared right now if I wasn't already on the floor id have fallen over with fear. I clutch my walking stick like a lifeline, the only normal thing left. "But she's not human." Martha says and I hope they listen I hope all this isn't futile.

"Oh, but I am. I've been catalogued." Florence says confidently.

"But she's not! She assimi-" Martha stops abruptly. "Wait a minute. You drank his blood? The Doctor's blood?" Was this his plan all along? Please let it be. "Oh, I don't mind. Scan all you like." She says without a trace of doubt. She fell for his human act.

"Non-human." The Judoon declares with the same impassive gravel-ly tone.

"But- what?" Doubt enters her tone for the first time. "Confirm analysis."

"Oh, but it's a mistake, surely. I'm human. I'm as human as they come!" As human as the Doctor.

"He gave his life so they'd find you." Martha whispers and I am too numb for it to sink it. He's dead. Heroic sacrifice. Stupid.

"Confirm. Plasmavore, charged with the crime of murdering the child princess of Patrival Regency Nine." _Good_ , I think with vengeance. _Good_. She deserves everything she gets. "You killed a child?" I say shocked. _You killed your best friend. Not so different._ "Well, she deserved it! Those pink cheeks and those blonde curls and that simpering voice. She was begging for the bite of a plasmavore." She doesn't regret it. Maybe that's the difference. I regret what I did every day. Maybe I can change. _Except you don't deserve to change, you deserve to die._ The Doctor didn't deserve to die. Nobody deserves to die.

"Then you confess?"

"Confess? I'm proud of it! Slab, stop them!" No, nobody deserves to die… but some people should die so others can live. Like Florence. The heavy, methodical footsteps begin again but then they stop. Did the Slab die?

"Verdict, guilty. Sentence, execution." The Judoon- judge, jury and executioner. "Enjoy your victory, Judoon, because you're going to burn with me. Burn in hell!" Florence screeches, the mad cackle that reminds me of a witch being burnt at the stake. Except she's taking all of us with her.

I hear the Judoon discharge their weapons. She's dead. "Case closed." They state, with the same frustratingly impassive tone they have had this entire time.

"But what did she mean, burn with me? The scanner shouldn't be doing that. She's done something." Martha says. "The scanner is her weapon- she said something about burning half the Earth?" I try to recall her exact words but it's all a blur. "Scans detect lethal acceleration of monomagnetic pulse." The Judoon say. I understand the word lethal. Is it still not over? Will we all die here?

"Well, do something! Stop it!"

"Our jurisdiction has ended. Judoon will evacuate." They are going to let us die here? "What? You can't just leave it. What's it going to do?" Martha says forcefully and desperately at the same time.

"All units withdraw."

They are going to leave us to die.

"You can't go! That thing's going to explode and it's your fault!" Martha says with outrage but it does nothing to stop them- they leave without… without anything.

"What do we do?" I say with panic in my tone. I stand up just because it feels like something productive. "I'm going to try CPR." She says determinedly. "Martha, if we don't make it then I'm glad I met you." I blurt out and feel stupid. "I'm glad I met you too." She replies.

" _One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. Two hearts! One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five_." She mutters to herself while performing CPR. _Please don't be dead, please_. I'm not sure it'll make much difference, him living only to die a little later from the lack of oxygen but he doesn't deserve to die at Florence's hand. The oxygen- I become awkwardly aware of my breathing. Should I hold my breath? Would that conserve oxygen or make me die faster?

Martha is gasping for breath now. "Martha stop he might not wake up." I say desperately because I don't want her to die before me. I feel light headed. There is a sudden gasp and a thud as someone hits the ground- what the hell happened?

"The scanner. She did something." Martha says and then she doesn't say anything else. Please don't let her be dead. "Doctor?" I ask barely able to believe it (and if he replies I don't hear it) but then the world seems to swirls around me. But if I die now that's okay, so long as Martha and the Doctor can live.

The buzz of electricity is everywhere and my hands are sweating I feel feverish. My stomach twists and churns and my head buzzes. There isn't much time left. "Soddit." The Doctor curses loudly through gritted teeth (words sound more like growls when people do that). A sharp _crack_ and the thud of several things dropping to the floor. I am barely aware of what he has done- my head feels muffled, like it is dissolving almost. The oxygen is almost gone. _It's not so bad, not a bad way to die. Like turning off the TV, everything fades to a black screen._ But I also don't want to die, a burning clawing feeling because I am a coward and I know who will be waiting for me if I die.

Then I hear the most beautiful noise I've heard all day: a faint _whoosh_ from outside, rattling the windows. The Judoon are leaving.

 _They've gone_ I think. Then my head falls down on to my chest and I don't think of anything at all.

I have never been quite so glad to stand on concrete.

I am sitting on a wall outside the hospital (nobody noticed I went out the front door when I woke up. It was exhilarating freedom), I realize this is the first time I have been outside the hospital, blind. It hurts. It didn't feel permanent. Like I would just step outside, get my sight back and the credits would role. This is much worse.

Sure I can make my way down a few steps and to one measly wall but what about a job, or a career, or a family? All the things they teach you to dedicate your life to? What am I supposed to do about all that?

I haven't got a clue.

"Hello again." It's the Doctor. I am relieved he didn't go without saying goodbye.

"You're an alien." I state. I believed it earlier, but now, back in the real world…

"Yep." He pops the p. "So what happens to you now? Do you, like, get the mothership to beam you back up?" I joke.

"Not exactly. It's just me, you see." He says with a sadness that has been long buried yet must haunt him still. "Sorry, I didn't mean…" I trail off.

"I'll just go wandering. I've got my ship. The TARDIS." He says with his usual positivity back in place.

"Erm, did you say Tetris?"

"No T-A-R-D-I-S." The Doctor pauses. "You could come with me, if you want." My heart races a little. "When you say ship you don't mean boat, do you? I get seasick…" I trail off again, pathetically. "No, not exactly- a spaceship. A machine to travel across space and through time." In other circumstances I would brand him crazy but after everything today… it takes me less than a second to make my decision. I have nobody on Earth.

"A time machine. Oh my god, a time machine." I say but my heart is racing and my head is rushing forwards at full speed because _this is my chance_.

My chance to see again.

The past, present, future. _Different planets!_ It makes me giddy just thinking about it. And knowing that out there somewhere, is going to be a way to see again. There has to be. ( _You think that's honestly going to happen? This is not a fairy tale-_ ) I can silence my doubt because this is enough, for one day.

Just for one day I can begin again.

 **Sorry this update took a huge chunk of time- I will try to update full episode chapters though this may take longer. I also had a ton of work that only slowed down for Christmas but I won't forget about these fics I'm writing. I tried to express Leo's actions as cowardly and self-preserving at some points, because I think if it was me facing the monsters on Doctor Who I'd react that way. Being honest with myself. But Leo will change in his attitude to aliens, but not before he has to suffer the consequences (because I'm a horrible person yay).**

 **Thank you for reading :3**


	2. Witches, but Dumbledore wouldn't approve

**Witchcraft but Dumbledore wouldn't approve: In which I have my worst aquatic nightmares fulfilled (the Shakespeare Code, part One).**

I had come to the conclusion that if I was a ghost, I was a terrible one.

After banging my head on the floor for the third time I realized if I was a ghost my head should be sliding through it, not painfully retroacting off it.

His time machine is a recipe for nausea. It rocks violently from side to side and I keep grabbing for the centre object (a console, apparently) missing and falling over. Yes, I have been in one time machine and am already a critic. Sue me.

"Blimey. Do you have to pass a test to fly this thing?" Martha gasps and I hear shuffling noises as she moves off the floor. I try to do the same putting my hands up in the air (all the single ladies) to try to reach a platform to manoeuvre myself up with. Fortunately I still have my seeing stick (which I kept accidently hitting myself in the face with as I was thrown about, ungracefully, like popcorn in a microwave).

"Yes, and I failed it." The Doctor says bluntly which I laugh at. "Now, make the most of it. I promised you one trip, and one trip only. Outside this door, brave new world."

One trip? No, no, no… that's not nearly enough time. Unless he knows, he suspects? It's not like I want to use him just to get my sight back because I don't. I like Martha and him, I really do. But I want to see again.

I'll do anything to see again.

It selfish, I know. I don't care its selfish. In the world we live in you can't afford to be kind. Kindness, I think with a pang, is a luxury. And not one I can afford to give.

No matter what it might cause me to become.

"Where are we?" Martha asks excitedly. I'm more hesitant. Alien worlds? Could it mean more Judoon, more like Florence… at the time I was too full of adrenaline to be as scared as I am looking back on it.

"Take a look. After you." The Doctor says and I get the impression he is enjoying his role as tour guide.

I step forward. Its smells cleaner is my first thought. No constant hum of traffic or the hurried steps of pedestrians like falling rain. I hear running footsteps and the shouts of small children. Where are we if they are free to run about like that without fear of being hit by cars? They sound human as far as I know, though I'm not an expert.

Or… when are we?

"Oh, you are kidding me. You are so kidding me. Oh, my God, we did it. We travelled in time. Where are we? No, sorry. I got to get used to this whole new language. When are we?" Martha babbles with excitement. I feel deflated for a second. I can't see any of it. It isn't fair. Why couldn't someone else be blind? Why'd it have to be me? It makes me more determined at the same time to get the chance to see again.

And travelled in time? When are we? I'm excited despite everything.

"Mind out." The Doctor says suddenly and grabs my coat sleeve to pull me back.

There is a slopping sound as something falls to the ground. I remember from a primary school lesson olden-day people used to throw their waste out the window. And I only remember that because at break time Johnny Rodger took a dump out the window at break time and it hit me.

Why, yes, I am petty enough to still hold a grudge, thank you for noticing.

"Gardez l'eau!" A male voice shouts, probably French for Watch out for low flying shit! Or something. Or maybe he's just telling us to get out of his bathroom.

"Somewhere before the invention of the toilet. Sorry about that." The Doctor says sheepishly.

"I've seen worse. I've worked the late night shift A+E. But are we safe? I mean, can we move around and stuff?"

"Of course we can. Why do you ask?"

"It's like in the films. You step on a butterfly, you change the future of the human race."

"Why a butterfly? What if I step on a caterpillar?" I ask deciding now is a perfect time to debate how insects affect the future. "Tell you what then, don't step on any butterflies. Or caterpillars. What have they ever done to you?" The Doctor jokes but I am still slightly wary about the time destructive butterflies. The consequences of changing time.

"What if, I don't know, what if I kill my grandfather?" Ah, yes the casual recreational activity of murder. I heard about that once- an infinite loop or something. Like an elevator that never stops at any floor and you just get stuck.

"Are you planning to?"

"No." Martha says. "Yes." I deadpan.

"Well this is awkward." I add to the bemused silence.

"And this is London?" A past London where the weather is quite literally shit.

"I think so. Round about 1599." Tudor England? Ginger King messing with the religion to get the Boleyn Booty? About the extent of my knowledge.

"Oh, but hold on. Am I all right? I'm not going to get carted off as a slave, am I?" I didn't even think about historical stuff like that. Would they? Could they? If they tried to I doubt id be much good if it ended up being a fight…

"Why would they do that?" The Doctor asks seeming genuinely puzzled. Does he know so little about Earth history? Or does he just believe most people are good? People aren't good. They have the choice to be and they will always choose the harm rather than hurt… You know that. You aren't completely stupid, after all…

"Not exactly white, in case you haven't noticed." I hadn't. Another reason why I need to see again.

"I'm not even human. Just walk about like you own the place. Works for me." Of course it does. "Besides, you'd be surprised. Elizabethan England, not so different from your time. Look over there. They've got recycling." The rhythmic thump of something hitting a container. I have no idea.

"Water cooler moment." I don't know what he's talking about. Lousy tour guide. I demand a refund!

"And the world will be consumed by flame." A public speaker. Chris referred to them as The Preach Leach. She said they leached all the fun out of life. In London they either preach with a dull loud tone that fades to background music like a radio or in loud, shouting tones demanding you all listen or else perish in the fires of hell (dramatic music). The one here is the dull kind, luckily. Weird to see how somethings don't change.

"Global warming." The Doctor remarks which I snort at. "Oh, yes, and entertainment. Popular entertainment for the masses. If I'm right, we're just down the river by Southwark, right next to-"

His dramatic pause lengthens as we move through the streets.

"-Oh, yes, the Globe Theatre!" He announces. "Brand new. Just opened. Through, strictly speaking, it's not a globe, it's a tetradecagon. Fourteen sides. Containing the man himself."

"Oh my god, Shakespeare." I gasp. I don't have much in the way of academics but books are everything… were everything. I read some Shakespeare- I always found Romeo and Juliet stupid (If they'd just kept it in their pants everything would've been fine) but I loved Othello.

I wish I could still read. I tried to learn braille but I've always been bad at languages. Audio books aren't the same. I know I'm not in a position to be picky but I miss real books most of all. They were the only thing I had that was a constant and beautiful and… and I just can't give that up. Not for anyone.

I doubt Shakespearian England is the place where I'll find a solution. I should enjoy myself for now as much as I can.

Yet I swear to myself the next book I read, properly read, will be with my own two eyes.

The applause was deafening. The audience was almost like a stampede, feet beating the floor and hands clapping. I had never been to a concert before but this was how I imagined it- the wild, nearly uncontrollable atmosphere where the very air itself was electrifying.

We had been watching with the rest of the peasants. Me, a twenty first century peasant, mixing with all the sixteenth century peasants. Surreal. Whereas we might smell overpoweringly of Lynx, they smelt overpoweringly of faeces. It smelt the same level of awful to be honest. Though we were crammed in like sardines (which was terrifying, like being swept away with the currents) it was all worth it, just to be here.

"That's amazing! Just amazing. It's worth putting up with the smell. And those are men dressed as women, yeah?" Martha's excitement echoes my own. Its completely unbelievable.

Even more than the Moon in my eyes. That was terrifying and deadly. I barely knew what was going on and was torn between crying and running away for most of it. This is wonderful and mad and more than I ever could've hoped for in those long empty days in hospital.

"London never changes." The Doctor says. "Its brilliant!" I exclaim, uncharacteristically happy. "Mental, but brilliant."

"Isn't it just?" The Doctor replies happily.

"Where's Shakespeare? I want to see Shakespeare. Author! Author! Do people shout that? Do they shout Author?" Martha asks.

A deep male voice shouts author as well and soon the whole crowd chants it. It feels oddly like a football match (not that I would know the specifics of football) with the same excitement and giddiness.

"Well, they do now." The Doctor remarks.

There is the creak of wooden floorboards as Shakespeare (I presume) steps on stage. The applause grows till it is reminiscent of waves smashing against a beach. I join in, clapping till my hands hurt.

"He's a bit different from his portraits." Martha says and I wish I could know what she meant. "Genius. He's a genius. The genius. The most human human there's ever been. Now we're going to hear him speak. Always he chooses the best words. New, beautiful, brilliant words." The Doctor fanboys over Shakespeare and I would join in only apprehension and excitement has my jaw clenched shut.

"Ah, shut your big fat mouths!" Shakespeare bellows.

I now understand why you should not meet your heroes.

"Oh, well." The Doctor says, rather dejectedly. "You should never meet your heroes." Martha says knowledgably and echoes my own thought.

"You've got excellent taste, I'll give you that. Oh, that's a wig." Is he flirting on stage? I'm not disappointed. Just surprised. He reminds me a bit of Sirius Black. "I know what you're all saying. Loves Labour's Lost, that's a funny ending, isn't it? It just stops. Will the boys get the girls? Well, don't get your hose in a tangle, you'll find out soon. Yeah, yeah. All in good time. You don't rush a genius." He continues ranting, bragging and self-deprecating himself a little. I'm slightly transfixed. "When? Tomorrow night. The premiere of my brand new play. A sequel, no less, and I call it Loves Labour's Won." He finishes grandly to cheers and applause and my own clapping abruptly stops.

Loves Labours Won isn't supposed to exist.

I haven't been this shocked since the aliens came. The very first time they came, and everything we thought we knew about our place in the universe was violently ripped apart.

You know, those fun days.

But the knowledge of this play that simply shouldn't exist has shocked me beyond anything else- some things are lost to time, and now we are glancing at one of them. Its mind blowing- that we could be the first people, well beside Shakespeare himself, to unearth a hidden mystery of time.

"I thought Loves Labours Won was lost to time. How can it be here?" I ask the Doctor. Please let there be a logical explanation. I am not ready to risk death by aliens (or Shakespeare play I guess). "I thought that too. It's the lost play. It doesn't exist, only in rumours. It's mentioned in lists of his plays but never ever turns up. And no one knows why." The Doctor explains mysteriously. Doctor Mysterious. Like an awful comic book villain name.

"Have you got a mini-disc or something? We can tape it. We can flog it. Sell it when we get home and make a mint." Martha says. Privately I had been thinking the same thing. I've never had much money to my name so the chance to make lots of money quickly is irresistible. I'd never have to work again or worry about bills, could just buy a nice house with a lot of books. I ruled the play out because it'd be too difficult to get hold of, but if I see a chance I hope I can end up with my sight back and rich…

No. It isn't right to think like that. But my entire life has been crap so why the hell shouldn't I help myself? Nobody else will… except it is betraying my friends. If they were strangers it would be different but they aren't.

I wish they were strangers. Why not betray a friend? They wouldn't be the first. I cannot silence myself at all. I cannot even win a fight against myself. My hands clench into fists. The thing about the darkness that constantly covers my eyes is its dangerous- I forget I'm not alone sometimes. That showing weakness to anyone is foolish. Also I fall over shit a lot- another reason I'd prefer to be on my own when I do that. Like the Amazing Gravity-Defying boy- watch him trip over anything and everything!

"…how come it disappeared in the first place?" Martha says and I jump off my train of thought. "Well, I was just going to give you a quick little trip in the Tardis, but I suppose we could stay a bit longer." The Doctor says and I swear he sounds happy.

Surprisingly, I am too.

The only other pub I frequented was the Boar with the Tusk (Do boars have tusks or was it just a poorly named sign?) when I was eight. Before my dad died but after he left me in a home, he tried to bond. It initially involved him asking me about my life but as I retreated into sullen silence he retreated into alcohol. Eventually I was left sitting at a bar with a book and a packet of crisps (my dad always twisted the packet into a knot and called it a butterfly) while my dad hovered around the pool table, draining beer like he could find the answers to his problems at the bottom of each glass. Those are the only good memories I have of him.

This is completely surreal in comparison. The Elephant, a tavern with a courtyard is very different. No static-y football in the background, no Northern bartender like the Boar had hollering out drink orders. It doesn't smell like chip fat and cigarettes, it smells like musk and alcohol.

"…enough beer in this lodgings house to sink the Spanish." A female voice says jovially. I listen to people much more than I used to. I remember something about Elizabeth the first and the Spanish Armada. Probably from Horrible Histories. Or a Philippa Gregory book. I am a font of information, tis true. Kind of an unreliable font, but still.

"Dolly Bailey, you've saved my life." The bawdy voice of Shakespeare. This is all so weird. I'm fizzing with excitement, so terrified I'm nearly numb and have a thousand questions on my tongue all at once. I also want to run away, like you do when you see a celebrity in public (and then presumably regret it, go home and bury yourself in Tumblr).

"I'll do more than that later tonight." She says coquettishly and I blush somewhat prudishly. "And you, girl, hurry up with your tasks. The talk of gentlemen is best not overheard." Her voice goes harsher, like addressing someone below her. I recognize being spoken to like that many times. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am." The serving girl says timidly. I feel bad for her. I hear the hurried thud of boots moving away on a wooden floor.

"You must be mad, Will. Loves Labour's Won? I mean, we're not ready. It's supposed to be next week. What made you say that?" A low, serious male voice addresses Shakespeare. Almost the opposite tone of Shakespeare himself. "You haven't even finished it yet!" He continues sounding very exasperated with Shakespeare. I get the feeling his exasperation is not a new feeling.

"I've just got the final scene to go. You'll get it by morning." Shakespeare replies without a trace of doubt. So what went wrong in twenty-four hours? I have a sinking feeling we are in the middle of a plot. Tudor times, no police, we could die just like that.

Wait, what do they even do to blind people here? Do they leave them to die? Do they end up as beggars? Will people want to do that to me? My fear is sudden and crashes down like a wave.

"Hello! Excuse me, not interrupting, am I? Mister Shakespeare isn't it?" The Doctor begins cheerfully.

"Oh, no. No, no, no. Who let you in? No autographs. No, you can't have yourself sketched with me. And please don't ask where I get my ideas from. Thanks for the interest. Now be a good boy and shove-" I stupidly stand there with my mouth slightly open because all I can think is Shakespeare is a diva. If he was alive today he would have an angry twitter.

"Hey, nonny nonny. Sit right down here next to me. You two get sewing on them costumes. Off you go." His demeanour suddenly changes, going from closed off to flirtatious. He has definitely caught sight of Martha. Huh. It's difficult to associate the man in front of me with the Shakespeare.

"Come on, lads. I think our William's found his new muse." The same woman from earlier sounding a little more disgruntled.

"Sweet lady." Shakespeare says smoothly. I am suddenly very self-conscious. About to meet maybe the most well-known writer ever, in a pair of crinkly green hospital pyjamas. At least I'm a little hidden by a coat. I was directed to a wardrobe room and got… got is the wrong word, I was given a grey coat with a (sophisticated) collar, boots and sunglasses. It was extremely odd. The label had braille on it which I could read. No, not read, the words were already in my head, as instant as if I had been reading the English. It was… alien, but I wasn't convinced it was real and someone just gave me the clothes and I was actually having a psychotic breakdown. I make a mental note to investigate it more.

"Such unusual clothes. So fitted." He continues and I feel very awkward. I try to avoid romance. Whether it be my own (yes with the frivolous love life I lead) or someone else's romance always makes me uncomfortable.

"Er, verily, forsooth, egads." Martha says and I'm glad I'm not the only one feeling out of my depth while being back in time. "No, no, don't do that. Don't." The Doctor says hurriedly. Like correcting a mistake in another language.

I hear the brief rustle of paper and fabric as he gets something out of a pocket. "I'm Sir Doctor of Tardis and these are my companions, Miss Martha Jones and Mr Leo Renton." He says grandly and now I really wish I was not wearing crinkly pyjamas.

"Interesting, that bit of paper. It's blank." Shakespeare comments mildly but with undertones of suspicion. "Oh, that's very clever. That proves it. Absolute genius." The Doctor says with satisfaction like he won a prize.

"No, it says so right there. Sir Doctor, Martha Jones. It says so." Martha insists, though I see nothing (duh). It's an awful, familiar sinking feeling. Feels like being the last one picked for a team. A stupid comparison but the same feeling of being different.

"And I say it's blank." Shakespeare says with more of his stubborn suspicion. "What is it?" I ask curiously but also impatiently. I hate waiting, which is probably anti-British of me (but if we are going down that track I prefer coffee over tea. I know, the scandal). I think I might have culture shock to be honest. I'm still slightly expecting to wake up in a straightjacket any second.

"Psychic paper. Er, long story. Oh, I hate starting from scratch." The Doctor says absent-mindedly, like he's having a movie style flashback. Movie flashbacks are incredibly boring when you aren't the one having the flashback.

"Psychic? Never heard that before and words are my trade. Who are you exactly? More's the point, who is your delicious blackamoor lady?"

"Did he actually say that or am I deaf now as well?" I say scathingly and with unusual confidence.

"What did you say?" Martha says echoing my disbelief.

"Oops. Isn't that a word we use nowadays? An Ethiop girl? A swarth? A Queen of Afric?" Shakespeare continues, blissfully unaware. "Do you have an off switch?" I mutter rudely the sudden confidence draining as quickly as it came. I bristle at his words. Yep, this is why you don't meet your heroes.

"I can't believe I'm hearing this." Martha mutters and I feel the same.

"It's political correctness gone mad. Er, Martha's from a far-off land. Freedonia." The Doctor lies with easy grace.

I didn't know what outrageous backstory the Doctor was about to come up with for me –a royal or peasant, or tragically blind artist- but at that moment the sudden voice of a man ranting made me jump.

"Excuse me!" He says, in a high, nasal voice that makes the hair on my neck stand up. "Hold hard a moment. This is abominable behaviour. A new play with no warning? I demand to see a script, Mister Shakespeare. As Master of the Revels, every new script must be registered at my office and examined by me before it can be performed." It had taken me no more than the time it took him to finish his rant to realise two things: One, he was seemed like a prat. And two, nasal voices are really annoying.

"Tomorrow morning, first thing, I'll send it round." Shakespeare says smoothly. It was comforting to learn Shakespeare was also a fellow procrastinator. I reminded myself to use that one if I ever had overdue homework, then I realised it would be unlikely I would ever be able to sit in a classroom again. Ah, well, silver lining to blindness and all that.

"I don't work to your schedule, you work to mine. The script, now!" He barks. Around us the whole bar holds their breath, waiting for Shakespeare's reply.

"I can't." Shakespeare admits quietly.

"Then tomorrow's performance is cancelled." The man snaps.

"It's all go around here, isn't it?" Martha jokes, trying to lighten the mood.

The mood did not want to be lightened.

"I'm returning to my office for a banning order. If it's the last thing I do, Love's Labours Won will never be played." He hisses, trying to be menacing but ending up with irritating. I hear the sudden squeak of shoe on wood as he turns on his heel to go.

There is silence for a moment or two as the oh-so-friendly man leaves.

"Well." I say, as we listen to his footsteps fade. "He seemed like a charmer."

The air is cooler outside.

I shiver, push my hands deeper into my (definitely historically inaccurate) hoodie, and listen to the streets as they empty of sound.

I didn't know if it was still evening or night-time, but it definitely sounded later- less people moved around, probably heading home for the night. The night air is cold, stinging my skin, and the I scrape the cobblestones with my walking stick as I move forward. I like it- it's less hectic than modern streets, and I know no cars will run me over. (Which is nice, I like my face to be not run over).

In spite of everything I felt a little proud of myself, able to figure small things out about being blind. It was horrible, sure, and I hated it, but I was slowly getting used to that, the same way you might get used to a relative you hate visiting every Christmas.

Blindness was just something terrible I had to get through, like measles. I feel a rush of determination. It wouldn't be forever, just a bit longer.

All I need is a chance.

"Well then, mystery solved. That's Love's Labours Won over and done with. Thought it might be something more, you know, more mysterious." Martha says, sounding more than a little disappointed. I can't blame her- I might not have been expecting a battle to the death, but I was at least expecting some good old Shakespearian insults getting thrown around.

Be careful what you wish for. A voice whispers in my head, sounding like Chris's. Chris was never an optimist. "Why bother to be one? Optimists just lie to themselves. S'like having hypothermia and saying you're only a little chilly." She'd scoff, though hypothermia was difficult to get in London, unless you decided to set up camp in a fridge.

I am about to tell Martha this when we hear the screams. The scream is weak, would be easily swallowed up by the noise of the twenty-first century. But this is not the twenty first century, and it cuts through the peaceful night air like a siren.

A second, shriller cry follows it-

"Help me!"

-and we are running, the Doctor holding my hand so I won't fall behind, feet sliding on slippery cobblestones, my walking stick swinging wildly from one hand. I think I hit someone, as there is a sudden burst of swearing from my left. I feel heat rise in my cheeks and yell an apology as we pass by, glad for once I can't see who I hit.

I am exhilarated. I am terrified.

I want to run away. I want to keep on running to show the dark I am not afraid (even though I am, I always am).

But still I run.

The mistake I make a lot about being blind is a simple one, but a terrible one. I always assume that leading the shameful, alone existence I do now- being unable to watch telly, do the crossword, or even make a cup of tea without burning myself- means I've not only hit rock bottom but decided to set up camp there.

Only that was my mistake.

Yeah, being blind and alone is awful. But (as it turns out) its even worse when there's a dying man three fucking feet in front of you.

And you can't.

Do.

 _Anything_.

Martha fell to the mans side with a thump on the cobblestone road. "Got to get the heart going. Mister Lynley, come on. Can you hear me? You're going to be all right." She began to reassure him in a no-nonsense Doctor tone (One I'd become incredibly used to hearing at the hospital myself).

"What's going on?" I asked, trying (unsuccessfully) to mask the tremble in my voice.

"It's the man from earlier- Mr Lynley-" Who? For a panicked minute my head was completely blank, my mind unable to place the Voiceless man, and then I remembered the tight-schedule man from earlier with a gasp. "He's struggling to breathe."

As if he wanted to confirm this point Lynley began to gurgle, a harsh, watery groan not unlike the sound I remembered the pipes in my Dads flat making when they got too clogged with hair and barely-eaten takeaway neither of us were quite able to stomach.

"Oh god." I moaned. A man was dying in front of me. A man I had been taking the piss out of barely five minutes ago, a man who was dead just like the ones in the hospital- shit, shit shit-

 _Somebody else is dead because of me. Just like Chris._

A wave of dizziness washed over me and I thought I might be sick. Bile rose in the back of my throat as the thought cut through my head.

 _Get a fucking grip Leo, or do you want the only chance you have of getting your eyes back to walk away from you?_

Furiously, I wiped away tears I did not remember falling. Crying was apparently my go-to move when dealing with the supernatural. I fought to return myself to normal, burying my emotions down.

"What the hell is that?" Martha asked in shock.

"I've never seen a death like it. His lungs are full of water. He drowned and then, I don't know, like a blow to the heart, an invisible blow."

"He drowned? On Land?" I asked. "And then got beaten up by a ghost?"

"It seems so."

I was suddenly very, very glad I could not have seen the state that Lynley must have been in even if I wanted to.

There was a sudden flurry of footsteps towards us and a high-pitched wail. Fortunatly, the Doctor was on-call to bullshit.

"Good mistress, this poor fellow has died from a sudden imbalance of the humours. A natural if unfortunate demise. Call a constable and have him taken away."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll do it, ma'am."

"And why are you telling them that?"

"This lot still have got one foot in the Dark Ages. If I tell them the truth, they'll panic and think it was witchcraft."

"Right, so we don't get burnt as witches or whatever. Good plan." I butted in.

"Okay, what was it then?" Martha asked in impatience.

"Witchcraft." The Doctor said, and I don't need eyes to tell you he was smiling.


	3. A Blah with the Bard

A Blah with the Bard

I was pretty sure the boredom would kill me before the witches.

We hadn't suddenly been crushed by three hags in a spinning cauldron as they crashed through a window, and Voldemort (like his noise) was nowhere to be seen. I would have been disappointed (aliens were something else, but now witches!) only I didn't want to die before I'd had a good night's sleep.

So I went to my home away from home: the pub.

The room had been booked and I, despite the Doctor and Martha's efforts to get me to socialize, had retreated to the downstairs pub. It must've been late but it was quiet- there was only the worn barkeep scrubbing with his worn tablecloth, and the late-night drunks. Nice ones, though, nothing like the way the Ram's Scrotum got after dark when my dad used to take me.

It was supposed to be the Ram's Horns, I think, but everyone called it the Scrotum because it matched the service better. Was in Manchester but it was easy to find; you just had to follow the sounds of the loudest drunks to get there. My dad moved a lot for his work. Contact building, so I spent most of my time up North with him until the accident, but he always gravitated back to the Ram's.

My dad used to take me there for a packet of crisps and a pint after school when he was still him, and a smoke and a stool-fight when he wasn't.

I remembered the first time I went. I was seven years old, and Billy Castle had just slammed me into the bins at break-time. I'd come out crying with rotten apple-slices in my hair and gravy slicked like shit down my pants, so they'd called my dad to bring me home, because a crying boy can't get through two hours of Maths (He can't see the calculator buttons).

Dad took one look at Billy- looked right down on him like he was nothing- and said "You don't touch my son again." Real simple, didn't even touch him. Poor Billy went green and (true to my Dad's word) never touched me again.

Dad was my hero after that. Always will be.

But he changed, like people do, especially when you don't want them to. He'd brought me along one Tuesday night, and I'd done my Maths homework four hours ago, listening to the rumbling of my empty stomach mourning the long-ago Prawn Cocktail crisps, and was nearly sleeping on the bar.

Big Tim, called that even though even primary-school me could look down on him, came and woke me up.

"You need to get going with your Dad, Johnny." I wanted to tell him my name was Leo but my mouth didn't seem to be working. Cos I'd seen my Dad, passed out on the pool table, the pool cue squashed under his arm like a cane.

He looked, smelled, and sounded like an old man. Not an old man- a sick man. His skin was pale, his voice a weak moan in his throat. Big Tim walked over and woke him up.

"Out." He barked, waving his hands at us like we were a bad smell. Maybe we were.

Dad swapped the pool cue for me and out we went, one small boy struggling with the sandbag-weight of his dad. The night was strange and alien, even the smell was different, and as the late-night cold made my teeth chatter all I wanted was to go home. I started to sneak the bus timetable out of my jacket pocket. There were 24 hour buses we could catch, even though the dark and my different Dad were both terrifying to me, what was more terrifying was staying out in this different world all night. It was like a nightmare. You just had to walk right out of it, I told myself, and pretended my teeth weren't chattering with more than the cold.

Dad turned to me suddenly in the door and almost toppled me over. He grasped my bony shoulders in his meaty hands.

"Leo." He'd said. "Don't ever let a woman hook you in." Well. Nobody could say I _wasn't_ honouring his wishes, was I?

It was a long journey home that night. It took me years to realize she was the reason he drank, and longer to realize I was the reason he left.

But I suppose I've always been a slow learner.

In spite of what they become, pubs (like libraries) have always been safe spaces for me. I can't explain it. Everyone needs somewhere to call home, after all.

I rubbed my eyes. I knew I wasn't doing myself much of a favour sitting here and thinking about sad stuff, but I didn't know where else to go. Or where else I _could_ go.

I was about to get up and find somewhere quieter to feel sorry for myself when I felt a hand touch my shoulder.

"Hello again, my dear boy." The voice was rich with mirth. "So good to see you again!"

God, if I wasn't already awkward the blindness would have made me an awkward guy.

"Excuse me, sir, but I'm afraid I can't see you. I can't see." I explained bluntly, and hoped I wasn't about to get examined for my medical history (those fun questions people always thought they deserved an answer to: _How/why/when did this happen, how do you take a shit, are you nocturnal_ now –yeah, I was asked that once, if you can believe it- and my personal favourite _do you see colours when you close your eyes?_

"I apologize, I really should have guessed- your walking-stick-" He mumbled, half to himself, before announcing:

"Bill Shakespeare, at your service, once again!"


End file.
